The Prison of my Mind
by Mianne
Summary: Modern Phanphic. Joseph Buquet is murdered, and Christine is framed for the crime. She is labelled as insane and brought to the prison where Erik, the real criminal, lives. Time is running out before she is completely his. EC, somewhat tragic.
1. The Crime That She Did Not Commit

**I had a dream about this last night and thought it would make a great Phantom story. Most of this is the original Leroux, except for the half-mask, which is definitely ALW. I think it has better meaning, with the whole duality thing. However, I've decided to make Christine with brown hair and eyes, simply because my mind has been warped to see her that way. The original Christine was blonde.**

**My Dracula story isn't dead either! I just don't know where to go from here…I have a couple ideas, but I'm a little stuck for the moment. Please enjoy this story just as much!**

* * *

Erik sat in his lair beneath the penitentiary, adjusting his video cameras that were currently monitoring a trial. A very important trial. One that, if the verdict went according to plan, would change his life forever. 

Nervously, he knotted his fingers together as he watched the proceedings unfold. Part of him felt slightly guilty about the act he had committed. The other part was desperate for the verdict to come through so she could be within his reach.

Erik sighed, and sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. It had been days since he had last slept, eagerly preparing his abode for her arrival. His piano and organ had been restored to their full glory. Beautiful wall hangings draped around the carvings of rock. Candles glowed from every surface imaginable, and behind a door was her room.

He had made special efforts to make that room perfect. Original, it was his workroom, where he had composed his music and designed more jails. Soon, it would be the home of an angel.

Erik smiled at that thought, and with a swirl of his dark clothing, left the surveillance and control room. He strode swiftly around the underground lake to where his piano lay, waiting.

After Erik had finished designing some underground lairs for very wealthy terrorists in the Middle East, he had decided to come to America, where his real talents for mazes and impenetrable fortresses could be put to use. They needed larger jails, ones that were impossible to break out of, with designers that could get into the minds of criminals.

Erik was not foreign to criminal activity. After producing his portfolio and plans for an all-women penitentiary, the government had been eager to hire him. They had asked very few questions about his background. They didn't care if he was a criminal or not, as long as he designed the perfect jail.

He had decided to begin, and end, that career with a women's prison. A man's power lay mainly in his strength. A woman's power lay mainly in her charms. They had been having difficulties lately with inmates seducing guards and persuading them to show them how to escape.

Erik knew how to combat that. He had designed the perfect system, based on mainly automated, with a few wardens to monitor the automatic systems. They still had cafeteria staff, and some supervisors, but the amount of personnel had been greatly reduced. The government was thrilled about what that would mean for extra money. They had tried to find Erik again to make more of these Super-Jails.

But Erik had disappeared. Little did the government know, but at night, Erik had hired some shifty contractors to build a catacomb system beneath the jail. They had discovered the lake beneath the ground, sheltered in an ancient cave, and he took it as a divine omen. The cave, from what he could determine, was an abandoned gem mine, forgotten by time. Happily, he transformed it into his lair.

He had needed a lair of some sort, to figure out what he would do from that point on. Living beneath a building of his own design seemed like the perfect solution. He lived peacefully, occasionally surfacing to cause a little bit of mayhem style fun, composing his music and creating more architectural designs.

Then _she _had come into the picture. The state had hired local opera artists to come in and given the women some Christmas spirit. They re-enacted "Hannibal," just the three of them, to the enthralled women. Erik had watched in the air-ducts, wincing as the soprano named Carlotta butchered the notes.

Suddenly, like an angel, she had appeared, singing a soft aria entitled "Think of Me." She was beautiful, that was to be sure, but there was an aura of innocence that encircled her, that made him want to weep with its splendour. As she sang for those inmates, her compassion for them had made her soul sweep to new heights, and he had seen the surprise in her face as she heard her true voice for the first time.

Instantly, Erik was obsessed. He had to have her. He needed her. For the first time in his wretched life, he had glimpsed heaven. But how could he trap her? How could he capture such a beautiful songbird and keep her?

The answer was surprisingly simple. He had built a jail, right? And what better place could he keep a constant eye on her? He was sure that eventually, she would be overcome by her loneliness and turn to him for love and support; that he would eagerly supply.

Now, all he needed was a crime. He left the jail only to install cameras and phone taps in her home, which he had traced through the opera. Finally, he had it. It was perfect. She wouldn't even need to commit the crime. Her soul could remain untainted.

His eye was drawn to the flurry of movement before him. It was time for her testimony. Already, he could see the judge mouthing her name…

* * *

"Christine Daaé, please rise to give your testimony." 

Rising soprano and state star Christine stood, trembling, and made her way to the witness stand, her fingers shaking and contorting.

She looked at her attorney, Raoul de Chagny, who was also her fiancé. He smiled reassuringly back at her. She tried to, but her throat seized up and she was frozen solid.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" Came the warden's voice.

"I…I swear," Christine stuttered meekly.

Raoul brushed a strand of his dark hair back, a piece that had come loose from his ponytail. He was at home here in the courtroom, and he walked around with confident ease. It was pure luck that Raoul had just finished his law practice when the murder happened. He provided his services to her for free, considering their recent engagement.

"How are you feeling, Christine?" He asked casually.

"Very frightened," she admitted, trying not to cry. She heard people shift in their seats around her. She knew she didn't look like a criminal, although she was the main suspect.

"That's completely normal," Raoul continued. "Can you tell us what happened the night that Joseph Buquet was murdered?"

Instantly, Christine was transported back in time to that horrible night.

_She had arrived home from a long day of rehearsal for Il Muto. She and Carlotta had been at each other's throats the entire time, and Mr. Reyer, the conductor, kept lashing out at her for no reason. She had been exhausted and in desperate need of a shower._

_When she arrived home, however, her father wasn't around. She remembered he was the guest of honour at a Cancer benefit concert. Charles's Daaé's full-time caretaker, Joe, was supposed to be doing a little housework that evening, while Charles wasn't there to fuss at him. In the later stages of his cancer, Charles had become more and more irritated by the simplest of things._

_"Joe?" She had called out, wondering where her father's caretaker and friend had gone. She had hired him because she was gone at the opera all day, and was living partially with Raoul. She wouldn't have been able to take care of him. Joe's smiling demeanour, grizzled beard and kind face made him seem like a skinnier Santa Claus. He had been perfect.  
Unfortunately, the previous night, they had quarrelled. Joe had made a comment about making arrangements for her father's funeral and estate soon. Christine hadn't wanted to hear it. She didn't want to acknowledge that her father was on death's door. So, to make up for it, she had brought a box of his favourite chocolates with her as a token of her appreciation for him._

_"Joe? Where are you? Do you need help with anything?" She had just taken off her coat and had stepped into the living room, when a shape emerged from the shadows, bunched her hands behind her and stuck a fowl smelling cloth on her face._

_She had struggled and tried to scream, but the fumes of the cloth were getting to her. As she collapsed on the rug, her last thoughts were of her father, Joe, and confusion as to why the man had smelt her hair._

"So, what you're saying is, is that you were knocked unconscious?" Came Raoul's voice. Christine jumped at his interruption.

"Yes," she answered.

"Do you have any idea who may have done this to you."

She shook her head.

"You'll need to answer verbally," he reproached her gently. "Just for the record."

"No."

"Thank you. So what happened when you woke up?"

_Blood. There had been blood everywhere; on her hands, in her hair, on the walls. Immediately, she checked herself to make sure it hadn't come from her. She was untouched, thank God, but that left two frightening alternatives._

_"Joe? Daddy?" She had screamed, running around the main floor. There was even more blood all around her, soaking into the walls and floors._

_By now, she was hysterical. "Can anybody hear me?" She dashed up to the second floor, and looked in her room._

_There was Joe, completely gutted, lying on her bed. Written on her walls, were the words "HE HAD IT COMING."_

_Christine had fainted._

_When she woke up, her father was peering over her, and red and blue siren lights were blinking through the windows._

_"Christine? Christine, thank God you're all right!"_

_He pressed her limp body to him, sobbing into her shoulder, ignorant of the blood soaking through his clothing. He helped her to her feet._

_Police officers were all over the place, taking DNA samples and removing the body._

_"Excuse me, miss," said one officer, taking her fingers and pressing them into blue ink. He then pushed them down on a page._

_"Thank you." He walked away._

_They had crawled all over the house that night, dusting and taking pictures. They received Christine's testimony, but they could find no sign of break and entry. At first they were confused, and then things started to make sense._

_There was no sign of break and entry. Christine had been under a severe amount of stress lately, from the opera and with her dying father. She and his caretaker had fought the night before. Her fingerprints were on the blood on the walls, on Joe, everywhere._

_The police concluded that Christine Daaé had snapped. They arrested her that night and brought her in for questioning._

_When her testimony had brought in no more new information, and seemed to confirm that she had gone insane._

_The next day, the papers heralded her arrest. Her reputation was ruined._

_Tears had begun to leak down Christine's face. She knew she was innocent, but how could she tell the courts that?_

"So you were unconscious the entire murder of Joseph Buquet?"

"Yes."

"You don't remember anything?"

"No."

"Defence rests, Your Honour."

Raoul sat down, looking very pleased with himself.

"Does the prosecution wish to cross-examine the witness?" The judge asked.

"We do," said the prosecution, standing.

He stood, and paced in front of Christine like a hungry lion.

"Miss Daaé, you are aware that your fingerprints were found everywhere, and it was determined by forensic labs that it was indeed your hand that put it on the walls?"

She looked up angrily. "I know that's what they found, but I swear, I didn't do it! I couldn't have done that!"

"Perhaps not consciously," he said, with strange emphasis on the last word. "You have been under a great amount of stress lately, yes?"

"Yes," said Christine.

"Have you had a history of psychological malfunctions?"

Christine looked guiltily into her lap. "When my mother died, I became depressed. I attempted suicide once, by trying to take too many pills. My father found me and saved my life."

"So the answer is yes?"

Christine exhaled sharply. "Yes."

"Had you gotten into a fight with Joseph lately?"

"Yes. He thought it might be time for me to start making arrangements for my father's estate. He implied my father would die soon. I didn't want to hear it. We fought bitterly, and I ended up walking away."

"Ah, so you were angry at him. This added to your stress too, didn't it?"

"Yes. But I didn't want to be angry with him anymore! So I brought his favourite chocolates to say I was sorry."

The prosecutor smirked. "Ah, yes, chocolate will make it all go away. Yes, the police did find that box of chocolate on the ground, unopened. That part of your story fits. The rest…doesn't.

"Miss Daaé, if someone had broken into your home that night, we would have found evidence. We didn't. It was somebody who had access, somebody who lived there. I don't believe that you killed him consciously, but maybe, this caused your already frail mind to snap and commit this heinous crime…"

"Objection!" Raoul stood sharply. "The prosecution is badgering the witness."

"Sustained," said the judge. "Mr. Willoughby, are you finished?"

The prosecutor stood, knowing that he had already done the damage needed to get a guilty verdict. "Yes," he said. "I have finished questioning the witness."

* * *

It had been Erik's concept to take Christine's fingerprints. The day he had bugged her house, he saw fingerprints on the piano's glossy top. By their size, they had to belong to her. He had returned another day with the appropriate equipment, and lifted them carefully off. In his lab, he created a glove with Christine's fingerprints on it. It was perfect. 

He watched on the screen as a psychiatrist came up to testify about Christine's state of mind.

"She is a very fragile, gentle lady, but her mind is completely exhausted. In a state of unconsciousness, she may have dreamt up this imaginary burglar, committed the crime and fainted afterwards, not remembering a thing. When I met with her, I was struck by how sweet and innocent she was, but the deeper I delved into her mind, the more I was convinced of her frailty. It is completely possible that she murdered Joseph Buquet. Completely possible. However, Christine's nature is a slight paradox to that. So, I conclude that whatever she may have done was against her conscious will."

"Thank you, doctor. You may step down."

Excellent, Erik thought, scrubbing at his unmasked left side of his handsome face. Insanity was even better. Perhaps she would be kept in solitary confinement, to be monitored for psychological health. Erik had had the concept to build in a psychiatric ward to the prison as well. Now, it was coming in extremely handy.

He turned his attention back to the court. Soon, the jury would deliver its verdict. Not a problem. He had taken some of his vast fortune and promised it anonymously to the jury members, as long as they delivered a guilty verdict. He had even given half of it straight up. It would not be a long adjournment.

* * *

Christine sat behind the defence's desk, nervously playing with a chocolate curl. Her eyes were red and frightened, and her father murmured his encouragement over her shoulder. Even though he was slowly slipping away, he had enough strength to come to this trial. 

"Don't you worry, Christine. I know you didn't do it. Your father knows you didn't do it. We'll always be here for you."

She looked up at him and tried to smile, but couldn't. Over the past few weeks of the trial, as evidence slowly mounted against her, she saw the doubt building in his eyes. She knew that whatever the jury decided, that would decide for Raoul as well.

Meanwhile, the jury had slowly filed back in.

"Would you, Christine Daaé, please rise?"

She stood, praying that her legs would not give out beneath her.

"Has the jury reached their verdict?"

"We have," said a man, standing near the front. "Guilty."

"Guilty!" Cried Christine, sinking to her knees in despair.

* * *

"Guilty!" Shouted Erik happily, standing in victory.

* * *

The courtroom was in shock. The judge pounded her gavel. 

"Christine Daaé, because of the implications of your psychological state, you are sentenced to go to Brentwood Penitentiary. You will remain in solitary confinement, under complete psychological care and watch, until it is confirmed that you are in a healthy mental state. Once you have reached that state, you will then serve an additional five years, to serve as a reminder for what you have done. May God have mercy upon your soul." She pounded her gavel. "Case over."

Christine collapsed in her chair, sobbing. Charles was in complete shock, and Raoul seemed to have decided that Christine was insane as well.

"Don't you worry," he said. "Once you're healthy again, we'll make an appeal."

"I'm not crazy!" Christine whispered amidst her tears. "Raoul, I'm fine! I didn't do it!"

"The Angel will look after you, child," came Charles's voice suddenly. "The Angel of Music won't let anything happen to his favourite singer. You'll always be safe, my dearest, even when I'm gone."

"Miss Daaé?" A sharp voice interrupted. She looked over to see two burly guards holding handcuffs. "Please come with us."

She clung to her father. "I love you," she sobbed, as they took her hands away and cuffed them. She stiff kept her cheek against his.

"I love you too. I promise, we'll visit once your confinement is over!"

Christine nodded weakly, and allowed herself to be escorted out of the building, to a waiting car. Meanwhile, the press thrived as the star was taken down the steps. They snapped pictures of her beautiful and tragic face, excited for tomorrow's headline of "Opera Angel goes Insane."

* * *

Erik now felt the blood pumping in his veins. She was coming to Brentwood, the jail he had designed. She would be here within twenty-four hours. He had to sleep, to prepare himself for this grand event. 

He stalked into his room, lifted the lid of the coffin and sunk inside. He fell asleep almost instantly, dreaming of a girl with the face of a goddess and the soul of pure light.

* * *

**This is my first phantom phic, so please tell me how you like it! I promise that it only gets better! If anything has confused you, just let me know. Yay! New story!**


	2. Don Juan Triumphant

**This chapter and the next are shorties, because I need the length and little tiny things before the Grand Abduction. But don't worry, there will be nice, deliciously long chapter when she meets Erik. For now, enjoy this next one! I'm loving writing POTO fics, this is my first! I really like it!**

* * *

Christine stared bitterly at the silver handcuffs around her wrists; the tears flowing freely down her face. Now she was completely and truly alone. She had seen it in Raoul's eyes when he chastely kissed her forehead, just before they had hauled her away. He thought she was mentally ill. Her father, she knew, had the sense to realize that there was no way she could have ever killed Joe Buquet. Why the jury couldn't see that frustrated her to no end.

Brentwood was an hour from where the court case had taken place. The entire way seemed both like an eternity and the blink of an eye. Time warped and distorted as Christine stared longingly out the jail-van's barred doors. Would she ever be freed from this nightmare?

Finally, they arrived. She was escorted out of the van and taken into the holding area. Christine was surprised, as they drove through barbed wire-peaked fences, how there were no guards along the outer walls. She thought this was one of the top prisons of the nation. How were there no security personnel?

She was not given time to ponder. She was shoved roughly through the doors, where a prim female receptionist was sitting.

She examined Christine crudely through her blue-rimmed spectacles.

"Name?"

Christine gulped. "Christine Daaé, ma'am."

"Please follow me."

The two guards stood by the doors, but did not follow as Christine let the woman lead her into a smaller room. A female doctor stood there, holding a clipboard. She looked up, and did not respond to Christine's timid smile.

"Please remove all your clothing," the doctor said monotonously.

"What?"

"You heard me."

Nervously, Christine did as she was told, trying not to cry at how she was suddenly naked.

"Stand up against the wall."

She did, shaking. The doctor measured her height, which was around 5"7, and took her weight and arm span measurements. When she was done, the receptionist took a carbon copy of this information and disappeared, returning with a bright orange jumpsuit,

"Put this on," she instructed, handing Christine a matching pair of fluorescent underwear. Eagerly, Christine scrambled into her new clothes, glad to no longer be nude. The jumpsuit itched away at her skin, chafing against its softness.

When she had finished, she was led down a pure white hall where there were no windows, and no guards. There were security cameras everywhere, though, and small marks along the floors and walls. Christine marvelled again at how few guards there were.

The receptionist reached a door marked "psychiatric ward." Christine felt her heart jolt as she was led down it. This was it. She was being put into solitary confinement for observation.

They stopped at a door labelled with a large "5." The receptionist opened the door, and with a mock bow, gestured Christine inside.

The room was small, with a tiny cot covered with a meagre blanket. There were two large mirrors, facing each other. One, Christine supposed, was where the doctors would be. The other would be a fake to confuse her, to ensure she never knew which one she would be watched from.

As the door closed behind the secretary, and an ominous click ensued, Christine felt hysteria whelm up inside of her. She was trapped. She would not see anyone but doctors until they were sure of her mental state.

Now, she felt more fragile than ever. The only window was about eight feet off the floor, covered with bars. There was no other furniture in the room at all. The only thing there was the Bible, placed carefully in the centre of the pillows. The Bible…

"Angel," she suddenly prayed, not caring who might hear. "My Angel of Music, please watch over me. Please, help make sure that everything's all right. I'm frightened, Angel! I didn't kill Joe, I swear! Please help me get through this okay. I need you."

Softly, she began to sing.

* * *

From his subterranean level, Erik watched and listened, entranced. Quickly, he grabbed his sketching pad and began to draw the lines of her lovely face, in an attempt to capture that ethereal beauty as she sang. Her face began to take shape on the parchment, comforting him.

* * *

From behind the mirrors that were to the right of Christine's bed, her new psychiatrist, Dr. Giry, nearly dropped her clipboard.

"My God," she whispered. "She has the voice of an angel."

* * *

_Angel of Music, Guide and Guardian,_

_Grant to me your glory_

_Angel of Music, hide no longer,_

_Secret and strange Angel_

The words of her father's lullaby comforted her as she sang them, pacing her room. She continued to sing the haunting melody, only this time without words. It soothed her frazzled nerves, calming her enough to lie down on the uncomfortable bed, gazing at the light the lonely window cast through her room. She noticed the light-switch built into the wall next to the headboard, and flicking it; plunged into darkness, save for that lonely patch of sunset shining on the wall.

* * *

The next day, Christine was woken harshly by a buzz on the door. Her eyes tried to see through the morning mist that hung over them, and she could make out a tray being slid through a mechanical panel built into the door. Her stomach whined for food, and she scrambled out of bed to see what had been brought.

It was two pieces of burnt toast, some slightly green and washed-out looking scrambled eggs, and a glass of watery juice. Christine ate it all quickly and without complaint, knowing that she would need her strength.

She was diligently making her way through the Bible when a knock on her door sounded. Confused, Christine called out, "Come in."

A woman, whose age could have been anything from thirty to sixty, came through the door and closed it behind her.

"I always find it the polite thing to knock," she said pleasantly, her accent slightly French. "My name is Dr. Giry, and I am your new psychiatrist."

Christine shook her outstretched hand, and took her appearance in. Her face was mature, but the skin was tight and unwrinkled. She was wearing a pristine white lab coat and carried a clipboard, and her stance was proud. She had a presence of command around her that was unmistakeable, but also of kindness. Christine was grateful that she was not given a frightening psychiatrist.

"I didn't kill Joe," Christine stated, as she sat down on her bed.

Dr. Giry was a little surprised. Usually patients tended to beat around the bush, to stall their actual sessions.

"Perhaps, but you were found guilty in a court of law, and your sanity was questioned," said Dr. Giry gently. "That is why you are here. Perhaps we will discover if you truly killed Joseph Buquet, and perhaps it will remain lost in the abyss of your mind. For now, we will do our best to help you get better from any illnesses you may be suffering under. Now, let's get started by running a few tests, shall we?"

Christine obliged her. She took the ink blotting tests, written tests, and many others. She wasn't sure how well she was doing, but Dr. Giry seemed a little unnerved when she received Christine's answers.

At the end of their session, Dr. Giry shook Christine's hand again. "Thank you, Christine. We will see each other every day, and we will constantly be recording you in here. I will also be checking up on you through the observation window, which I'm sure you know is one of these mirrors. I won't say which one, but don't be afraid. There are no cameras in the washrooms."

She pointed to a small door in the corner Christine hadn't even noticed.

"These tests that you have done lead me to believe that you are in no danger of hurting yourself, so the showering chamber will be unlocked for you. That's all for now, though, any questions?"

"When will I get out of here?"

Dr. Giry sighed. "I'm not sure, dear. We'll soon see."

Christine nodded, and made her way to the washroom. At that moment, Christine would have traded anything in the world for a shower.

* * *

Dr. Giry headed back into the observation room, and rubbed her eyes. All of Christine's tests results showed that she was in perfect mental condition. She seemed worn, of course, but the inkblots showed that she was most likely compassionate in nature, and probably incapable of murder.

It didn't make sense. Usually there was a slip-up of some kind in even the most clever of patients. Christine's was flawless.

Sighing, she put the test results inside a bright purple portfolio. She would have to keep a very close eye on Christine Daaé. She was either completely healthy, or a ticking time bomb.

* * *

Erik paced anxiously in his bedroom, trying to drive her out of his mind, but it was impossible. Even in bright orange, she was still lovely. Even in the most trying of circumstances, she managed to keep her cool.

I'll wait a week at most, he decided. A week of seeing no one but Dr. Giry, a week of nothing to keep her occupied but the Bible, and she would be desperate for someone to save her from her solitude. It would be the perfect time for his grand debut.

Meanwhile, he had to keep his mind busy, to stop the infinite wait. He strode powerfully to his piano, and began composing a suite dedicated to the passion he felt for her. Music welled up inside his very soul as his fingers began to strike at the keys. In those moments, it felt not as though he were playing the piano, but instead, the piano was playing him.

He finished the introduction, and wrote everything down in blood-red ink. He tapped his chin thoughtfully as he tried to think of what to name it.

Finally, it came to him. The passion he felt for her was the passion of one thousand men. Only one other man in the history of mankind used the seductive power that Erik too possessed. It was a sacred art that only those born with the ability could truly use, and that other man had used it almost infamously.

However, the name was not enough. He needed something else to bless it, to ensure his victory. Erik snapped his fingers as the title instantly struck him.

With a smile, he penned the words "Don Juan Triumphant – for Christine."

* * *

**Ta DAAAAA! Another chapter. Reviews make me insanely happy, so please review! (please check your "How to care for yourtemperamental writer" manual for instructions).Honestly, reviews make my day. I don't care if they're anonymous or not...please just review!**


	3. Fragility and Notes

**I'm RIDICULOUSLY sorry this has taken so long to update. What has it been, a month? I'm so sorry, I've been doing some professional theatre work this summer and I haven't been a good author. Bad author, bad!**

**Um, here's the update (sheepishly decides to end tirade.)**

* * *

Solitary confinement was quite possibly the worst prison sentence Christine could have been given. Although she was often terribly shy and quiet, she drew energy from the people she chose to surround herself with.

Now, the only thing to keep her from becoming truly insane was the Bible. Christine read the passages with a newfound vigour, forcing all other thoughts out of her mind as she passed the time.

Dr. Giry visited her every day. At first, their time together had been for psychological therapy, but now it seemed as if they were old friends. Dr. Giry used to be a very gifted ballet dancer, before she went back to school to become a psychiatrist. As Christine also had a strong background in ballet, the two discussed their favourite works together. It was Christine's favourite part of the day.

One day, Dr. Giry came into the room with a proud smile.

"Christine, I have arranged with the psychiatry board to allow you out of your room twice a week. Once they have determined your behaviour with the other patients, they will review your case, and you may soon be out of solitary confinement and into a regular cell."

Even though this wasn't exactly the best of news, to Christine it seemed like a message from heaven. "Oh, thank you, Dr. Giry! Thank you!"

She threw her arms around the older woman. Dr. Giry hugged her back awkwardly.

"You remind me of another patient here," she murmured into Christine's curls before drawing back. "A very sweet, innocent girl. She was never as strong mentally or emotionally as the other girls, but in her right mind she would never harm a fly." Dr. Giry's face saddened for a moment, and then she twitched it back into its regular, disciplined look.

"Come, Christine. You may come out into the common room, if you'd like. We'll try you out there for an hour, and see how you do."

Christine nodded, meek as a lamb, and followed Dr. Giry out of the dreaded Room 5.

* * *

Erik's face swelled with fury as he watched Dr. Giry announced to Christine the good news. Or not so good news in Erik's case. Christine needed to stay where she was. When he finally came to her, it would be much easier to take her from Room 5 than an ordinary cell. As well, her desperation to go to the common room proved his theory. She was craving human contact. It would make her mind even more susceptible to his words.

It was time to take action. He could not just sit by and let Dr. Giry prove Christine was innocent. No, that would not do. Dr. Giry owed him a few favours, and he figured it might be time to make good use of them.

Angrily, he grabbed his eagle-feather quill and dipped it into his favourite blood-red ink. He quickly scribed a message to Dr. Giry, and then dropped it back into the well. If the woman would not stop meddling now, then he would be required to take more action. Until then, he hoped that would do.

Now, as for the psychiatry board, what could he do to persuade them that Christine was not sane? It would be like trying to convince someone that an angel wasn't good. Christine was obviously in her right state of mind.

Angel…his mind flashed briefly on one of the stories Christine's father used to tell her. The story of Little Lotte and her Angel of Music.

Erik's green eyes took on a diabolical gleam. He went to his main switchboard and checked if he had the proper wiring and connections to carry through with his scheme. He did. Laughing, he began to wire his project that would convince any doctor that Christine still needed to be in solitary confinement.

* * *

A ringing phone awakened a sleeping deputy detective from his slumbers. Spilling papers all over the place as he tried to unearth the phone, he finally located it and answered in a deep, accented voice.

"Nadir Khan, deputy detective."

"Hi, this is Benjamin Reyer from the county morgue. I have the autopsy and post-mortem shots that you requested. May I fax them to you?"

Nadir dug around on his desk and found a fax machine buried even deeper. "Sure," he replied. "Here's the number." He shot off the digits and hung up the phone, waiting for the prints to come through.

Scattered on his desk were stories and newspaper articles he hadn't read for years, most of them in Persian. They were right from before he was forced to flee Iran as a refugee, right before he had met Erik.

That was what was troubling him now. The Daaé case had seemed like any other, and he had passed it to a junior detective without blinking an eye. But one night, as he looked over the shoulder of the officer who was handling the case, he was forced to do a double take.

"Are those from the Daaé case?" He had asked the officer.

"Yep," the man had replied. "Open and shut case. The girl snapped and murdered her ailing father's caretaker. She had a history of depression and suicide. The case was closed in a month."

Nadir's eyes had narrowed. "May I see those prints?"

"Of course," the man answered. "I filed most of them away, though, and you know how bad the filing room is. You'll never find them. You can call the morgue, though, they have much cleaner files."

Nadir nodded. "Thank you."

Now, pictures were floating in from the fax machine. He had spent his extra budget money on a colour fax, simply because he had felt like it. The best tool in that office was his mind. Everything else in there was simply clutter. He had a habit of collecting clutter the way a magpie would collect shiny things.

As he looked at the pictures of Joe Buquet's body, he felt his suspicions taking on a new force. The bruises around Joseph Buquet's neck were huge, with finger marks much larger than the Daaé girl's must have been. She was a petite ballet dancer. Those markings looked like something a wrestler would have made.

Then there was the manner of Buquet's gutting. It was executed in a way that he had seen only in one other place, done by only one other man. It was too clean, too polished to be done by a young woman. This was the work of an experienced killer. And Nadir Khan had more than just a small suspicion as to who it was.

Sighing, he picked up his fedora and grabbed his trench coat. He was a fan of 1940's movies, and he had bought the ensemble to suit his career. He glanced at the mirror on his way out, and gave himself a wry smile.

"Here's looking at you, kid," he told the reflection, before stalking out the door. He knew what kind of person he was about to be dealing with, and made a quick prayer in his head. Erik was not fond of those who interfered with his plans.

* * *

Christine walked into the common room of the psychiatry ward wide eyed and stunned. The patients milled around, under the patient supervision of doctors, and seemed completely oblivious to their surroundings. There was a large window, covered with bars, that Christine was instantly drawn to.

As she made her way to the window, she examined some of the patients around her. One had bandages wrapped all around her fingers, and kept trying to scratch at her arms. Instead, she could only managed to claw at the teddy bear she held. It was missing an eye, and the stuffing was falling out where she tore at the seams.

Another sang, "Ring around the Rosie," softly and eerily, and Christine found herself shivering as she listened. Another girl performed graceful pirouettes, her neat blond hair streaming out behind her as she performed a complicated ballet routine.

"You're very good," Christine told the girl gently, in an effort to break the near silence that plagued the common room.

"Thank you. I cannot give you any autographs, but I am glad that you enjoyed the performance!" The girl smiled back with empty blue eyes. Christine did her best to return the smile.

"Do you dance ballet?" The girl continued to talk, as she fell to the ground, landing in the splits. "You look as though you have had training. My agent may be able to get you a job here, as long as you don't mind dancing in the chorus. Would you mind doing a pirouette for me, followed by a plié?"

The girl looked so hopeful that Christine obliged, and for a moment, her orange jumpsuit seemed like a flowing costume. The girl nodded.

"Lovely. Simply lovely. Well, if you come back in another few days, when I'm not so busy rehearsing, I'll get you an audition. You deserve it much more than the little rats who usually dance in the chorus." She giggled. "My husband, Paul, really likes those foolish young women, though. At least, he used to. He went on vacation to Bali, and he's not coming back for a long time. He used to love to spend hours with those little tarts, promising them auditions and fame in exchange for kisses and more. I'm not sure if I miss him, or not. Oh well, he'll be back sooner or later, I'm sure. Whenever he decides to be a good boy."

Christine gulped, and nodded. "I see."

"At least while he's still away, it won't mean walking in on him and all those tarts together in the dressing rooms! He might have found you attractive, because you are, but I don't think he'll be finding anyone attractive but me, now. Sorry! Better luck next time! But here! I think I hear the producers saying that our rehearsal is over! Why don't we two stretch and warm-up, and see what we can come up with! Perhaps we can work some new choreography into the second act."

Christine made a pathetic smile. "Okay."

She sat on the ground and began doing pike stretches with the girl, reaching down and touching her toes, opening her legs wide and spinning her torso. It had been months since she had last danced, since the trial demanded all her attention, and her body was alerting her to that fact.

She spent the rest of the hour stretching with the girl, stealing glances out the window whenever she could. Out in the courtyard, she could see the other female inmates playing basketball and skipping rope. She longed to get out of solitary confinement and become a regular prisoner, but her visit with this girl was helping ease her mental struggle.

"I don't know your name," Christine said suddenly, as they did grand plies in fifth position.

"Oh, how silly of me!" The girl giggled. "I'm Meg, Meg Barbezac. You do not know the name? Of course not! I danced for years with a different name before I got married. Perhaps you are familiar with the name Meg Giry?"

Christine gasped, and Meg tookit as a start of recognition. "I thought so," said Meg merrily. "I danced as principle dancer for the New York Ballet for five years before I married Paul. He was a producer, and that's how we met. I don't know what he's doing in Bali, though. Maybe he's still producing. He hasn't sent word yet, but I'm not worried."

"Christine?" Dr. Giry's voice interrupted her very confused thoughts. "Your hour is up, dear. Time to go back to your room."

"Oh, must you go already?" Meg pouted. "Oh dear. Well, come back another day, preferably after rehearsals are done, and we will work together again! Goodbye, Christine!" Meg looked at Dr. Giry momentarily. "You know, you look very much like my mother, ma'am. That could not be, of course, since she died so long ago, but there is something in your face that reminds me of her. You must come by my dressing room sometime, and we will have tea together!"

Dr. Giry gave Meg a sad smile. "Of course, dear, I look forward to having a nice cup of tea with you there."

Meg nodded graciously, and began to jeté around the room. Christine hurried after Dr. Giry.

"I see you have met my daughter, Christine," Dr. Giry said wearily. "She was the patient I described to you. The innocent one. She was probably the world's finest ballet dancer, the best anyone had ever seen. Then, she married Paul Barbezac." Her hands balled up into fists at her sides.

"What happened?" Christine asked, almost afraid of the answer.

Dr. Giry sighed. "She began to suffer through bouts of schizophrenia. Their marriage was already very rocky, and he was extremely abusive, but with the schizophrenia, she began to change. He beat her more and more frequently, and she desperately reached out for the world that she had created in her mind.

"I'm not sure if you know what schizophrenia is, Christine, but she was convinced that there was some sort of organization after her. She didn't eat any food that she herself did not prepare, for fear of poisoning. She dropped out of the ballet, though in her mind she still went to rehearsals every day. Finally, she 'discovered' that Paul was an 'agent,' and stabbed him forty-three times with a carving knife. Horrified with what she had done, she retreated into the world you experienced today. A world where she is the prima ballerina, her husband is vacationing in Bali, and her mother is dead."

They stopped outside of room 5, Dr. Giry looking very weary. "I had her transferred here as soon as she was declared legally insane. I do not want you to think I became a psychiatrist just to spend more time with my daughter. I was working here long before she got sick. I am not even allowed to diagnose her. But you dancing and spending time with her will make her very happy, I'm sure. Even if you are not allowed out of solitary confinement yet, I will do all I can to ensure that you may continue to visit the common room on a regular basis."

Christine nodded. "Thank you, Doctor." She looked at the door wistfully. "I wish I didn't have to go in there."

"I know, dear," Dr. Giry murmured. "But we'll have you out of there as soon as we possibly can."

Christine managed a tight smile, and then entered the room.

* * *

Dr. Giry slid her electronic key through the door, locking it. She was now more convinced than ever that Christine was sane.

Dr. Giry walked into the observation room, just in time to see Christine disappear into the adjoining bathroom. She sat down at the desk and added notes about Christine's interactions with Meg. She was deeply involved with writing when a note floated down into her lap, seemingly out of nowhere.

She jumped with surprise as the note fluttered in front of her vision, and then frowned at the skull-like wax seal upon the envelope. Her brow knitted as she opened the messageshe knew Erikhad sent her.

_ Dear Madam,_

_ It has come to my attention that you are under the belief that Miss Daaé is ready to be released from solitary confinement. However, there is great danger if you chose to push her case forward. From my observation, she should still be quite safe to dance and play with your daughter, no more than twice a week. But be warned: it will not be safe, for you or for anyone, should she leave that room at any other time. She will not be relocated into a prison cell if the psychiatry board knew what was good for them._

_ I remain yours, great lady,_

_ The Phantom of the Opera,_

_ Ghost of the Prison,_

_ The Lover of Trapdoors,_

_ Erik._

Dr. Giry set the note down on the desk, stunned. He had signed it with all of the pseudonyms he had been known by in his lifetime, including the one she recognized.

However, there was a matter of pride and debt. She owed Erik everything. She had saved him, and he had saved the one thing in life she loved more than anything. She could not betray him or his trust.

She looked up as Christine entered back into the room, her curls damp and her face freshly scrubbed. She could see the tear stains on her face that the cheap prison soap could not erase, and knew the girl was probably experiencing a feeling of hopelessness.

Dr. Giry sighed heavily and cradled her head in her hands.

"Oh, Erik, what are you planning with this poor girl?"

* * *

**Tee hee, the plot thickens. Please review, and enjoy! I will do my best to update within the month, but it's frosh week at university, so I'm not sure how well I'll do. I hope you like it! Actually, I hope you love it!**


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